"encyclopedia" poems
Man has been gifted a great prize
Although they never assumed it would be their demise
Centuries ago the technology produced
Relied upon humans for a little boost
However now it seems every thought by a man
Requires for technology to come up with the plan
It seems man's intelligence has began to backtrack
Similar to being subdued in a flashback
All the knowledge they've acquired
Is something that cannot not be admired
Their lives are corrupted by the media
They get information from the Internet- not by encyclopedia
There is still a chance for them to turn it all around
And use these faults to help with the rebound
However if they continue on as shown
Their advancements will soon be marked with a headstone.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 1:52 AM UTC
Revolution: Part one.
The first French King sentenced to death,
Must have a new execution invented;
So that this day shall be forever remembered.
The execution of your King, this invention of evil;
This is how he will finally meet his end and go to the Devil.
The man behind the mask, the executioner;
Will lead us to change to a new world order.
A declaration of civil war, to stop the oppression,
Has lead France to say, we must fight to stop the aggression.
We must be revolting and begin the revolution;
To put an end to the executions.
The fall of the guillotine, for a life time spent,
Writing the encyclopedia, which lead to his death.
There is no place for God, in an encyclopedia of Man;
This writing is illegal, you are blasphemous! God ****
So the time has come, to take your last breath.
Remember when you see the guillotine... don't lose your head.
Until it's chopped off and ends up in the basket;
Another case of basket case madness.
No fiction necessary, for us to live here on Earth;
But this execution, you surely don't deserve.
So the poets leave France, before the revolution;
All of them heading, back to England.
These prison bars to entrap the young.
Taken prisoner for writing a book.
Follow their rules; free thinking is wrong.
The encyclopedia is evidence enough.
Man is born free and grows to imprison himself;
Then he must follow the orders, of somebody else.
Frances revolutionaries, said let it be, let it be;
But the nation is ruled, by the monarchy.
Imprisoned for what they think, the poets and the artists;
But there are no walls, in the prison inside their heads.
Begin the revolution and make us all classless,
Because they’re chained by society,
For the thoughts that they think.
A fight for equality, a modern day philosophy.
Man is born to think for himself; a revolution is on the way.
Liberty! Liberation for one free state;
A jaded nation must make a change.
Revolution began, after the fall of the blade;
Now the guillotine of power will stop us being slaves.
Preaching revolution, we must free ourselves of these manacles.
Preaching liberation for the masses
And freedom for the individual.
This new guillotine, the machine of death,
Makes the severed head fall into the basket,
As they take your last breath;
But they can't take your words, from the books you have written.
So fight the power!
Revolution! Revolution!
We must have a revolution, that is televised.
Che Guevara, Malcolm X, me, myself and I.
All of us willing to join the fight;
All of knowing our view is right.
(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 7:20 AM UTC
camel
C-A-M-E-L
...
... (?)
...
Why?
I don't know, cause they're cool ! . ?
his favorite animal is a camel
and he doesn't know why
but i do
i think, as a kid, he read about it
in an encyclopedia
And decided, "that's how I want to live my life"
the humps on camel's backs that can store water
and they can go days, weeks, months,
I even heard years
without replenishing
crossing dry, barren deserts
carrying cargo, people
i didn't know camels wore graphic t-shirts,
crocs and cargo shorts
but he is a camel
tall and lanky
takes in tons and never gains a pound
(i hate camels)
a camel exists in the Arabian world
is in love with a Middle-Eastern girl
and they even have a miracle of that descent
He IS A Camel!
but the humps on his back
are hope and inspiration
and with just a little in the tank
he will cross a world of deserts
and bring you back a treasure chest full of dreams
but he enjoys simplicity ...
Sometimes,
then sometimes not at all
he takes things way overboard
and carries far to much cargo
but he crosses the desert anyway
i didn't know camels were such good teachers
didn't know they made such good friends
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 4:30 PM UTC
The Things I Wish I Could Be
I wish I could be
one of all instruments;
the singer whose voice
transforms his audience into a choir;
the writer who drops his reader's guard
making a beautiful decimation of every self-made fantasy;
the actor ripe with nominations
whose prestigious Oscar breaks him open before the world;
the photographer who captures moments worth infinite words
while instilling that perfect piercing silence;
the painter of elegant simplicity
or ponderous complexity in every brush and stroke;
the icon strangers seek for reason
looking upon for inspiration;
the husband who gives and comforts
appreciating the angel he's been bestowed;
the father wise and guiding
with enough laughs and smiles to last their whole lives;
the chef and the baker serving only the best
scrumptious entrees and desserts;
the encyclopedia of experience
answering questions obscured from the web;
yet beyond all things
I wish to greet death with a smile
knowing my life, however lived
was worth those years.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
I am a bird chair
Bird chairs may have not caught on yet
but I promise you
they soon shall
I work well with a bird lamp
Wave at Window and Book Me
a How-To-Encyclopedia
of bird chairs and lamps
Chapter Four is all bird flags
You know how hot suburban jungle gets
Stringing lights around moon
is not so difficult
When wind is at your back
much easier in a bird chair
And with a bird lamp
Shoe painting is mentioned
in the glossary
just in reference to
sadness your bird chair
might be experiencing
If you wish to re-floor carpet bag
bird chairs are perfect
accompaniments
Big things are happening in bird chairs
Look out for bird jet next
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 11:00 AM UTC
I left it back in high school
on the bench near the gate
behind it were some red flowers
and I always thought they were nice
standing out from the green
surrounding them
I left it back in the library
Near the encyclopedia labeled
Firsts , I was on my way to you
when I dropped it
Back in middle school
on the 5th field during P.E.
he was beating me senseless
when it came off
I was bleeding everywhere
he told me to pick it up
that day I decided to walk home
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
Take my name,
take my card,
soon you will own me,
it is not that hard.
I am like an open book,
just type my name,
I'll be caught on your hook.
My information is everywhere
you can find my favorite food,
or most hated place to think,
either way I am *******
for you will own me before I blink.
With so much social media,
filling the internet like an encyclopedia,
about our lives and what they mean,
there is no privacy that can be seen.
So let us live our lives like animals,
living in cages placed upon these screens,
our lives are owned by these machines.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
Pressed flowers
Forgotten in the pages
Of the that book
Oh what was it called
But anyway,
That book is sitting
In my father's bookshelf
Somewhere between
A history of the civil war
And an encyclopedia from 1949
It is lost in the depths
Of my mother's bookshelf
There the book with the pressed flowers
Covered in dust and memories
Waits for me to recapture the lost moments
Collecting and absorbing the words
And ideas trapped within the binding
Lost flowers, pressed in time
Lost in the pages of my childhood
Bookmarked, forever.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
I’ve been going to this boxing gym and training every week.
And everyone there is fighting something
You can see in their
Eyes
They’re punching their dad
Or they’re punching
Whoever their wife is sleeping with
Or they're punching
Their kids who ignore them
Or they’re punching
Themselves.
Their boss
Their job
Their alcohol problem
Their poverty
And every week we get to fight our problems together
And we’re exploding inside.
What?
You can’t fight your problems?
It’s not only that I can.
I will.
And do.
Because crying alone isn’t good enough
Because all that fire you build up inside you has to go somewhere
Or it’ll burn you alive.
So you throw it into the heavy bag
Or into the guy you’re sparring
Or into the ground you run on.
We’re all fighting something
So what about you?
What are you fighting that’s so god **** important?
No, don’t tell me.
Tell that heavy bag.
He listens.
He listens when your wife doesn’t give a ****
He listens when it doesn’t even matter
Tell these padded mitts.
That one-two punch says more than a twenty-four volume encyclopedia
And speaks more concisely than Churchill or Hemmingway or Ghandi ever did.
Don’t tell me how it feels.
Don’t even try.
Let that punching bag know.
Because you know he’s listening.
And he doesn’t have anything else more important to do.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
A Tribute
A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind….
The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush.
The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins.
The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor.
With that, Steve Jobs is dead.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
I'm seeking to amass a Collection
of the World's spiritual, mythic and philosophical codices.
I want to collect them out of veneration
for those who came before who have tried to illuminate the Paths:
The following is my library of such books of yet.
Entries in bold are my recommendations;
entries italicized are strongly recommended.
-Old Works:
**Egyptian Book of the Dead
Tibetan Book of the Dead
The Bhagavad Gita
Euclid's Elements**
Tao te Ching (I have 3 translations)
I Ching (2 translations and a workbook)
The Qur'an
The Bible
-Newer Works:
Plato and a Platypus walk into a Bar: Philosophy explained through Jokes
*Quadrivium: Number, Geometry, Music, & Cosmology*
The Pulse of Wisdom - College Eastern Philosophy Book
*Food of the Gods by Terence McKenna*
The Elements of Reason - College Logic Book
1001 Perls of Buddhist Wisdom
*Net of Being by Alex Grey*
*Art Psalms by Alex Grey*
**The Portable Nietzsche
*The Red Book of Jung
The Portable Jung***
The Subtle Body - Encyclopedia of chakras, auras and other personal energy systems.
Who are you? - 101 Ways of Seeing Yourself
--
I seek to compile this Collection
not to have a nice looking bookshelf;
nor do I seek to find which one is right.
I seek to learn from each of these
the lessons that are intrinsic in our Lives;
they're all matters of perspectives.
I want to compile the aspects of each philosophy with which I resonate
and integrate them into my own,
forging a dynamic and holistic individual philosophy.
All of these books are Mystical masterpieces.
All of these books provide insights to the nature of our Holy Reality.
All of these books ultimately attempt to express the same ineffability.
All of these books are interpreted then translated and interpreted again.
The way I see it,
I may as well do it for myself; draw my own conclusions:
Think for myself.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
Is humanism Utopian?
You really have to think about it.
Or is it rather more dystopian?
No, then I think you’d never doubt it.
It seems that disbelief is best.
Humanism owes a debt
to thinkers of the Enlightenment,
although I haven’t paid it yet,
I think of it as my entitlement
to settle it at some behest.
I very early cleared my mind of Kant,
experiencing a vast relief,
approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant;
removing knowledge to allow belief;
the opposite of what he had expressed.
It occurred to me I ought to dig up
(or should I say instead ex-hume?)
what constitutes at least an egg-cup-
full of wisdom that I might consume
with non-platonic zest.
But wondering how on earth to do so
and thinking he might hold the key,
I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau
and set sail for my destiny,
while trying not to feel depressed.
Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears
as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu
and failed to still my latent fears.
And thus I felt no need to rescue
Adam Smith (morality-obsessed).
To put Descartes before the Horse-
men of the Apocalypse
War, famine, pestilence and worse.
Who could guess it would eclipse
my thought, wherefore I was oppressed.
Or take the case of Denis Diderot
a friend of Hume and others seedier.
and one you might consider so
rash as to produce an encyclopedia
to get his knowledge off his chest.
That precious quality of truth
was Mary Ann’s# description of it.
It would not take a Sherlock sleuth
to simply thus produce a conviction of it:
an elementary request.
I cut my questing teeth on Russell.
His secular logic had a profound effect
and seemed to stir each red corpuscle
inhabiting this fervid non-sect-
arian but doubting breast.
I later turned my eye on Dawkins,
and his concern with my divine delusion.
A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings
validate my disillusion
and emphasise an ill-starred quest.
And so I felt the pointlessness of it.
Progress is the best end for a man to see
And belief simply produced less profit
for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy.
So, in the end, I acquiesced.
#Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in Adam Bede
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
All my poems are gone
and my friends left, too--
maybe I'll **** myself because
I'm feeling pretty blue.
I know it shouldn't matter
I know I shouldn't care;
they're just words on a page
and thoughts in the air.
But maybe my life was saved
inside each one,
a catalog,
an encyclopedia,
I miss them a ton.
But I sail away
on my cheetah print sheets
to a passed out land of
marijuana dreams and
inebriated streets.
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 2:54 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Socrates on the Courthouse Lawn in Liberty, Texas
“Strong minds discuss ideas,
average minds discuss events,
weak minds discuss people.”
-attributed to Socrates, but no one knows
Imagine if you will old Socrates
On an old wooden bench on the courthouse lawn
Playing checkers with all the other old men
On an old picnic table throughout the day
He lifts his old straw hat in the leafy shade
With his old bandana he wipes his old bald head
And sagely asks the old questions of us
And through his dialectic dismantles old cant
And that must be why, as the ages pass
They’ve made for him a monument here in the grass
(While passing through Liberty, Texas I saw on the courthouse lawn a marble slab engraved only with “Socrates”.)
Liberty County Courthouse - TexasCourtHouses.com
Liberty, Texas, Bed & Breakfast Hotels (usatoday.com)
Socrates (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy)
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 9:25 AM UTC
There’s a line in a movie which goes something like “pain is good, it lets you know you are still alive”. The obvious question that I can hear you asking is “So when the pain goes away you know you’re dead?” This inevitably leads to a conversation about life after death.
Now that topic can be dangerous if you don’t walk away from the conversation quickly enough, at one of “those” parties, you know the ones; the one you would not have gone to if you knew that the person who invited you believed in the power of healing crystals. So as the bottles of wine get emptier, the part time philosophers get louder and more opinionated about everything from the existence of an afterlife to what was the “real” message behind the final episode of M.A.S.H. And yes, I have been unfortunate enough to actually hear some overfilled part time philosopher postulate a well thought out, theory on the subject at an Italian restaurant in Brisbane and unfortunately was only up to desert so could not escape without missing out on coffee and Muscat and cigars. It was a tough call though. Ah smoking in a restaurant, those were the days, now where was I?
So given the opportunity to choose an activity which you know involves pain, i.e.: Rugby League, running a Marathon, Childbirth or listening to drunk part time philosophers at parties, why would you knowingly throw yourself into any of these extreme sports? Well maybe because the rewards of the end result are worth the pain involved during the activity. So that cool night in that Italian restaurant I sat through Scott’s theory, not knowing at the time if the pain of the story was going to be offset by the quality of the temptations to follow desert. And so that leads me to the reason for writing this. A friend of mine recently wrote. “Apparently any given situation can look good if viewed from the right angle. Sometimes I get cramps!”
Well my friend the Muscat was good that night, the coffee rich and earthy and the cigars cheap but free. Scotts actual theory is long gone from my head but the memory of that Muscat coffee and cigars lingers for twenty years.
I am lead to believe that cramps may be a symptom or complication of pregnancy, kidney disease, thyroid disease, hypokalemia, hypomagnesaemia or hypocalcaemia (as conditions), restless-leg syndrome, varicose veins,[2] and multiple sclerosis.*
So, given that if in fact it turned out that you had one of these afflictions and the cramps lead you to discovering this fact, I would say the cramps; like my terrible dinner experience, viewed from the right angle looks good! Now off to the doctor with you, I’m off to the bottleshop.
*From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
Chance Operations are methods of generating poetry independent of the author’s will. A chance operation can be almost anything from throwing darts and rolling dice, to the ancient Chinese divination method, I-Ching, and even sophisticated computer programs. Most poems created by chance operations use some original text as their source, be it the newspaper, an encyclopedia, or a famous work of literature. The purpose of such a practice is to play against the poet’s intentions and ego, while creating unusual syntax and images. The resulting poems allow the reader to take part in producing meaning from the work.
The roots of using chance operations to generate poetry are generally traced to the Dada movement in Western Europe in the early and mid-twentieth-century, involving writers such as André Breton, Louis Aragon, Tristan Tzara, Philippe Soupault, and Paul Éluard. The Dadaists were deeply interested in the subconscious, and they believed that the mind would create associations and meaning from any text, including those generated through random selections. In one section of Tzara’s “Dada Manifesto on Feeble & Bitter Love," he offers the following instructions to make a Dadaist poem, here translated from the original French by Barbara Wright:
“Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are--an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the ****** herd.”
The use of chance operations in contemporary poetry has been used most famously by the international avant-garde group Fluxus, poet Jackson Mac Low, and the poet and composer John Cage. A good example of a poem that was written using chance operations is Jackson Mac Low’s “Stein 100: A Feather Likeness of the Justice Chair," which also includes Mac Low’s explanation of the methods he used to compose the poem.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
She was an old Mid-western woman.
She was a distinct type.
A stock-staple character,
Sort of half Beverly Hillbillies Granny,
Throw in a skosh Betty White,
Mixed in with a lot of that old lady
In Driving Miss Daisy.
Southern Indiana:
The Confederacy’s best kept secret.
But I digress.
She was my neighbor in Buckeye, Arizona,
A quaint agrarian township, way out
At the west end of Maricopa County, which is
An hour from the Phoenix airport, the so-called
Sky Harbor International Airport,
Which surely must be near the list’s top:
All-time most pretentious,
Hyperbolic Chamber of Commerce,
Municipal Boosterisms.
Wikipedia English - The Free Encyclopedia
Boosterism: the act of "boosting" (or promoting) a town, city, or organization, with the goal of improving public perception of it. Boosting can be as simple as "talking up" the entity at a party or as elaborate as establishing a visitors' bureau. It has been somewhat associated with American small towns. Boosting is also done in political settings, especially in regard to disputed policies or controversial events.
So, without thinking,
Walking down the driveway
To pick up the morning paper,
I let it slip:
“How are you?”
She’s leaning over the hedge,
As I bend down,
Picking up the local Pravda.
35 minutes later she sums up:
“I had to go to the doctor last night.
Gave me some cream for my pud.”
A twinkle in her eye—
She, my lascivious,
Old lady neighbor
In Buckeye, Arizona.
She had that sweet Mid-western thing
Working for her, her regional mojo.
And I’m right there on her wavelength:
The apple not falling far from my tree,
Or something like that . . .
I am losing my train of thought, here.
Last poem of the day, I guess.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
He beams as he enters my bedroom
Holding a glass bottle
Bout a liter with a light label
Ether? (i was already down a hot dessert road with a pint of it in the back on the way to Las Vegas in a red sportscar)
No my son
Embalming fluid
Quickly we scrounge for money
And with almost zero effort
We had an eighth of some funk
We feel rich as we walk
And the rain falls
A good omen
As we smoke a cigarette near the retention pond
A falcon picked up a black snake and carried it over the trees
Marijuana soaked in embalming fluid
The bodies are emptied and filled to help slow down decomposition
He reads from Encyclopedia Britannica about embalming
I imagine ancient humans sitting around a fire in the center of the dessert
They are throwing massive amounts of marijuana on the fire
Inventing gods and dancing
They were each dipped and allowed to fully dry
We talk about all the **** our egos have snagged lately
As he packs
The hit
Like plastic to the tongue
My lungs become black in an instant
Filled with an acrid white smoke
Exhale the soul
**** that was fast*
Stillness in everything
The building vibration at the base of my skull
Reverberating through me
each word
Spirals off into thousands
Of volumes of information
The processing power
Of the machine
Capable of this existence
the psychotic episode of existence
It tries to talk
Surely it thinks it is something
How fine it is to know that it will all one day end
In an instant neither dark nor light I will die
And I have no fear of this
An instant of life
Boiling over to its brim in thoughts
To feel one moment of true ignorant blissful love of another soul
Love just another reaction to instinct
That we love to label with
Big long pages of words
And inventions to make
Them faster until everyone knows what life should be like
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
5:30, 4:30 -
Up ever earlier.
40, 50, 60
Pages of the encyclopedia open.
All with tabs,
Of the many windows, pages, & folders.
Through the looking glass,
Roaming far & near as an extraterrestrial.
Nov 18, 2024
Nov 18, 2024 at 7:36 AM UTC
My name is Chris
I avoid obvious rhymes
and give you just the rancid;
'We feel you have not been communicating
effectively as an employee'
poet.
So to you I said 'I'm ill'
'Care to spill?' she hisses.
'Yes' I said
My names the one burning brightly up there in the corner of the room,
'Prince and King Godber'
bearing wooden sign carved by the passion of a Norse god,
a bearded dwarf on a throne.
She responds;
simple, ****** surreal metaphors notwithstanding I ain't slept...
Small **** Na **** but let's not go into it tonight,
naked.
In her dreams he's laid with a woman, wept weeping eyes, distant stare, destroyer of hope, Eastern European,a broken painter cheating,
but he didn't know till it was too late.
The Sun became black
The full moon became blood
the great mountain ran with fire
Pain. Passion, Nighttime.
'Do what thou Wilt' says the bald man and shrugs, setting a bomb off in the 20th century.
I did, I do, I do - boom boom. no one laughs.
She shouts angrily Fool, Coward, Prince
Why don't you just come dance outside
stroke away those cobwebs in your hair
so I did, ripped the cobwebs out
screamed outside, bashed my head
on concrete, tried to **** myself
once, maybe twice,
contemplated more.
Like Virginia my hidden idol. My sister in censured pain.
Knees bashed, half-cut in dead of night screaming **** this
provincial slaughterhouse, this cherryhouse
of the half dead / half ******
merry go round and round, like Kereouc,
but twice as merry, and that's saying something.
Come and bathe yourself in my immortal **** she bleats
'look it up in your encyclopedia of shames'
you'll just find a picture of a woman.
It's intoned meaning
It's poems,
lips tell tales,
tell them then. I dare yer to tell em.
Scream them from rooftops.
screaming eyes aglow, burning Blake fire
poet looks down with lizard eyes
you remind me of me Mum naked.
Puke. Puke, ***** on the doormat.
Violence in words,
this language is obscene
and that is why
he said she said
is gonna **** us.
Already has.
**** it, fancy overdosing yourself on abilify tonight poet?
Not a plan. Not a plan. Don't go out drowning
yourself in alcohol or life, not tonight, not tonight.
Just never.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
Anti me
Anti you
Anti everything
We’ve ever been known for
This is a relapse
Brought on by our late nights
And early mourning
We grieve to say we feel
As much as we felt
When we felt the way you feel
This is a relapse
Of my suicide attempts
The key to my self-hatred
Stares at me from the mirror
Let the leeches nourish on my flesh
And let my scars bleed for you
Forever eternally yours
Forever eternally yours
I bought a book the other day
With one hundred and twenty ways
To conclude it all painfully
Tortured under self loathing
I’m checking out
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 10:10 AM UTC
A garden trowel in a patch of irradiated weeds
An odometer in an endless maze of MickeyD's
An encyclopedia in a pawn shop full of tweakers
A love song on a boombox with broken speakers
May I present several examples of useless things with nothing to do
Now if you think those're bad, you should see what I'm like...
*
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 10:10 PM UTC
Never Forget Your Pills
Pretending to be normal,
its so hard when you're immortal.
In bed I'm called a god,
stand up for me and applaud.
Me more happy than a clam,
I'm more American than Uncle Sam.
I make your dreams come true,
I'm more famous than Playboys Hugh.
I love to flirt, I love to tease,
my goal is to always please.
I love being in the ****
I'm just that kind of dude.
A few times I've almost died,
I get emotional and have cried.
Some say that I'm delusional,
I find that to be kind of disputable.
You try being so **** perfect,
coming from me, what do you expect.
Not my fault, I'm the best,
I live by the power of suggest.
I open so many closed minds,
if somethings lost, I give it a finds.
I make magic with my pen,
I'm smarter than the three wise men.
I have no more competition,
everyone failed the last audition.
Everywhere I go, I get praised,
happening so long, I don't get phased.
Some say i suffer from schizophrenia,
all I read is the newest encyclopedia.
Can't help having god like features,
back in school, I taught the teachers.
Today I forgot to take my medicine,
everything just written was irrelevant.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
I CALCULATIONS
A bird from the window
Pecked at my papers
Lined with my scores.
Now trees are dead,
And papers are gone.
This is the computer age.
I will break it down for you.
I even made a list,
Would you like to count?
II THE LIST
1.This is the computer age
Of digitized proofs
And
2.Authority attested identies,
With participants' certificates.
3.Our own words have lost meaning
4.We are now vessels
With our definition stapled on screens
And
5.Meagre salaries
Tagged on our foreheads.
6.We are our grades.
7.The given guidelines,
Projects we finished overnight.
We are the cheated test scores,
8.The printed marksheets
From the renowned buildings.
9.We are a bunch of degrees.
10.We are a box of experience
With a reciept of coffees we bought,
We are a cv of what we did.
11.We are the said lies
And
12.The stress calmed by mummbled slurs.
13.We are the second employee
Shouted at.
And
14.We are the hundredth consumer
With company approved needs.
15.We are the salesperson with quotas to meet.
16.We are the owners
Of a dying business,
A pending debt.
17.We are the numerous people
Of covered faces on the streets
18.And exposed bodies in the world wide web.
19.We are the constructed
Digital photographs
With deconstructed heads.
20.We are a bunch of numbers
21.We are a bunch of numbers
22.We are a bunch of numbers,
23.When did we become
24. A 0 or a 1?
People shouldn't even fit in a whole encyclopedia
And yet here,
Are you looking for a number 25?
III RESULT
Well I gave the papers to the bird,
She put it in her nest
And made it warmer.
You call me crazy
But I will always
Call myself a free bird.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC